


Immovable Object

by Medeafic



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Collars, Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 12:18:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1898730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medeafic/pseuds/Medeafic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris has a brand new collar and doesn't want to take it off. (Repost from Livejournal.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Immovable Object

**Author's Note:**

> This was written years ago for the (old) RPF kink meme, for the prompt: I really really really want CFine in a collar. I never got around to posting it here on AO3 for some reason.
> 
> This is not a part of the Captain Spanky series. Beta read and greatly improved by the lovely Emmessann; all mistakes are my own. Contains D/s themes and a bit of topping from the bottom.

He’s kneeling naked in front of me, his face tilted up to look at me, and his blue eyes are radiating obstinacy.  
  
“I don’t want to,” he says, and it’s the second time he’s refused.  We have a three-strike rule for disobedience, and I wonder how far he’ll push it.  His hand is clamped over his collar, and he’s glaring at me.    
  
But he  _needs_ to take the collar off.  
  
“Look.  As much as I want it on you always, you have to give your skin a break from time to time.  If it starts chafing, you’ll start scratching, you know you will.  It might get infected, and then where would you be?  Hm?  Collarless, that’s where.  For a long time.  So do as I say.”  
  
I can see from the hard line he’s made of his full, pink lips that he wants to keep arguing.  But then he looks at the floor instead and inclines his head down, obedient.  I slip the small key into the fitted steel plate at the back of his neck, click the lock, and the collar opens.  I remove it from him, ignoring his stifled moan of disappointment.  
  
The collar is leather, apart from the lock, and fits close around the base of his throat.  A single band, thin enough to pass for just an eclectic taste in accessorizing for day-to-day wear.  But thick enough to send a message to anyone fluent in the language.    
  
I wanted an eternity collar in stainless steel.  Less fitted and less abrasive; more durable, easier to clean.  Less obvious.  And he agreed, gave way, submitted so beautifully with a murmured  _Whatever you think is best, Zachary_ , that I was overtaken for a moment and gave him what he wanted.  He’s a traditionalist at heart, that boy.  
  
“If we’d done it my way,” I tell him, “we wouldn’t have to remove it like this.  But I only have myself to blame.  I indulged you.”  
  
He looks up and smiles at that.  He enjoys being indulged, even more than he enjoys being deprived; anything, really, as long as it’s attention.  I noticed it during filming first, when he asked me after every scene how I thought he’d done.    
  
“What’s it going to take to shut you up?” I asked eventually, exasperated.  He gave me a slow up-and-down look.  
  
“I bet you could find a way, Zach,” he said softly, and I had to turn away and silently recite my times tables until I stopped thinking about the way he licked his lips.  
  
Then on tour one day, we were both exhausted and I was bitchier than I should have been, and he was more sensitive than he should have been.  We made it through the interviews, but late that night, he banged on the door of my room until I opened it.  
  
“Jesus,  _what_?”  
  
“If you’re  _so_ determined to be mean,” he said, “you could at least make it fun for me.”  
  
Well.  I’m only human, after all.  One thing led to another, and another, and another, until we were in so deep that he asked me for a collar and I wanted to give it to him.  
  
And now I can see that he’s shaken when I remove it, but it’s been a week since he’s had it off, and there are red marks on his neck from where it has begun to rub, despite the soft lining.  
  
He leans forward, curling his body up on itself, to kiss my feet.  But when he sits back up, his knees spreading again to balance, I see that his eyes are uncertain and focused on the collar in my hand.  
  
“Do you have something you want to say?”  He nods.  I twist the collar lightly through my fingers.  “Alright.  Go ahead.”  
  
“I feel--exposed.”  
  
“Well.  You  _are_ naked.”  
  
“That’s not what I mean.”  
  
He looks upset.  I smile at him, and stop fucking with him.  “I know.  But it’s just overnight.  You can put the collar back on in the morning, after your shower.”  
  
I place it back in its box, soft black leather nestling into the cream velvet interior.  I leave the lid off, and he watches as I put the box next to his side of the bed.  “At least you can look at it until you fall asleep,” I say, but his eyes are conflicted, and I know.  He can look, but he can’t feel it firm around his neck.  It could be comforting to look, or it could be torturous.  
  
He’s only had it for two weeks, and the last time I took it off him for a night it was, let’s be honest, a debacle.  He begged me not to, and even after I told him to be silent, he couldn’t stop pleading.  Tried to kiss me and make me forget by asking permission to blow me.  I teased him that he’d become  _too_ attached to his collar, and it was the wrong thing to say.  I don’t think either of us slept much that night.  
  
This time, he promised to be good and I promised not to tease.  
  
In the morning he wakes me early, but with kisses up and down my cock like I’ve taught him, and asks for his collar.  I make him shower first.  I can see his frustration, but I hold firm.  He needs to know who’s boss, after all.  He showers in record time and is back kneeling in position before I even finish my morning piss.  
  
“You were much better this time,” I say, as I replace the collar.  I see him breathe out as the lock clicks, his muscles relaxing.  He leans to kiss my feet again.  I slip the key back on its leather cord and wind the cord around my wrist, tying it off securely.  
  
I do sympathize with him.  When I take off the wristband every night, I miss it too.  
  
  
***  
  
  
The problem with owning someone is that sometimes you can get a little selfish.  I think about this during the meeting with my agent, who is telling me the new figure he’s negotiated for my next film.  
  
My mother tells me that I didn’t like to share when I was a kid, and I’m the first to admit that I still don’t.  And I hate it when people touch my stuff.  I am orderly and organized and I don’t need other fingers poking and probing at my things.  
  
That goes for him, too, which makes things difficult.  A lot of people like to touch him; friends, acquaintances, fans--they all like to go in for a hug or a rub of the arm.  He’s tactile, and he projects that.  It’s one of the things that first intrigued me.   
  
I would rather that no one touch him except me.  He’s such a temptation to me that I don’t want to risk anyone else feeling the same.  And I know that stems from an ugly part of myself, from a place I don’t like to admit to, so I don’t say anything.  I never say anything.    
  
But I don’t have to, because somehow he knows, and since the collar went on I’ve seen him forestall people into handshakes or back-slaps or fist-bumps instead of hugs.    
  
I wish I could tell him it’s not necessary, but I’m not strong enough for that.  So I allow myself that one weakness, and let him keep others at arm’s length.  
  
  
***  
  
  
I have three missed calls from him and two from his agent after I come out of the meeting.  I phone him back immediately.  
  
“They want me to take it off,” he says.  “For the photo shoot.  They keep telling me to take it off.”  
  
He has a key in his wallet, just in case, along with removal instructions for any EMTs, because the leather is stiff and difficult to cut.  And I told him when I put it on him for the first time that he was allowed to take it off for work, if he had to.  He got that stubborn look, though, and I knew then that something like this would happen.  
  
“We talked about this,” I sigh.  “It’s okay.  Take it off.”  
  
It’s the wrong thing to say again, because he starts shouting.  “I’ve barely worn it since I got it!”    
  
I want to point out that he’s being ridiculous, but even I know that won’t go down well.  “You’ve worn it every day,” I say instead.  
  
“You took it off me  _all last night_.  I’m not taking it off again today.”  
  
We both stay silent for a minute, and then I ask, “Where are you?”  
  
When I arrive, the photographer is livid; the stylists look bitchy and bored, and his agent is pacing around the door of his trailer.  She gives me a filthy look.  I know she blames me for everything these days, and she’s probably right.  
  
“Let me try,” I say.  
  
“Well, he sure as fuck won’t listen to anyone else,” she says coldly.  
  
He’s really, really angry.  “I won’t,” he says.  “I’m not going to do it.  After all of last night--not today as well.”  
  
“Okay,” I say, and hug him close.  He’s shivering, although he’s fully dressed for the shoot, including a jacket.  
  
“Please don’t make me.”  His mouth is muffled in my shoulder.  
  
“I won’t make you.  You know you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”  
  
I have taken my time in breaking him down and building him back up, but sometimes I think I should have simply stayed away.  Could I have stayed away, though?  He was relentless in his pursuit.  And he’s more confident now, less needy, less likely to see slights where none were meant, but his fear at losing the collar has almost become overpowering.  
  
“We need to talk about this later,” I say, and he gets that obstinate look again.  “It shouldn’t be interfering with your career.”  
  
“I don’t care about –”  
  
“Don’t say that,” I tell him immediately.  “Because even if you don’t, I  _do_.  I want you to be successful, and to have choices.”  
  
Finally, I’ve found the right thing to say, because his face is relaxing, the anger and the fear are leaving his eyes.  
  
“Because,” I say, hit with inspiration, “it reflects on me, too.  Your success.”  
  
“I guess,” he says.  
  
“I know it’s new, and we’re trying to make it work, but we still have to  _function_.  You know?”  I run my fingers over his collar, and he lifts his chin slightly, leaning closer into me.  
  
“I know,” he says.  “I’m just.  It’s a bit overwhelming sometimes.”  
  
“Yeah,” I sigh.  “For me too.  But it’s okay.”  
  
He takes a deep breath.  “I guess I could take it off.  If–if you stay here and hold it for me and put it on again as soon as I’m done.”  
  
I’ve made the right choice, here.  I’m so relieved.  It makes me reckless.  “Okay.  And tonight--I’ll chain you as well.  So you’ll feel safe.  Before bed.”  
  
He looks calculating.  “ _All_ night,” he says, and I sigh.  It’s a point of contention for us.  Threading a chain leash from his collar to the bed post and letting him sleep on the floor--I don’t like it.  It can be dangerous, for one thing, sleeping in what’s essentially a noose, although we have protocols in place to make it safer.  And I prefer him next to me, so that I can touch him or fuck him in the night if I feel like it.    
  
But I know how much he craves the debasement, how much it calms him to feel owned.  
  
“All night, then,” I agree finally.  His fingers still cling to his collar protectively but he looks happier.  “Now kneel down.  I’ll take it off.  
  
“Not yet.  After they put on the makeup.  Please.”  
  
“Anything else while you’re making demands?”  I raise my eyebrows, and my heart jumps to see him smile.  
  
“A kiss?” he asks.  I pull him tight into me and bite gently at his mouth.  He opens it with a sigh and sinks into the kiss, stroking his tongue over the roof of my mouth and then sucking at my lower lip like it’s the head of my cock.  
  
Speaking of which--  
  
“Enough,” I say, pulling back.  “For now, anyway.”  
  
He grins then, cheeky.  
  
When I open the door, his agent glares at me.  “He’ll take it off,” I shrug.  “But he wants the makeup first.”  
  
The makeup artist looks like he’s too young to have graduated from anything yet, and he’s wearing way too much eyeliner, even for an emo type.  He says his name is David.  I stay in the trailer as a support mechanism.  
  
“This is what all the fuss was about?” David asks with a laugh, reaching out to grab at the collar.  I see blue eyes go wide in the mirror.  
  
Before I can stop myself, I’m squeezing David’s wrist so hard in my hand that he yelps.  I pull his arm firmly away, loosen my grip a little, but not so much that he forgets I mean it.  
  
“I’m sorry,” I say politely, with my most dangerous smile.  “I didn’t mean to hurt you.  But please don’t touch that.  Don’t  _ever_  touch that.”  
  
David stares at me, and back to the collar.  “Okay,” he says faintly.  He doesn’t get it.  “I have to put some tissues around his neck, to protect the clothes from powder,” he says, annoyed.  “Is  _that_ okay?  Or would  _you_ prefer to do it?”  
  
“Thank you.  I will.”  David is surprised enough to let me.  
  
And I am rewarded by smiles in the mirror, blue eyes shining.  
  
I smile back.  Maybe he’s not the only one too attached to the collar.


End file.
